The smile of a cloud by tempest rent.
Ch. A dawn in vain arisen—
Alma is dead:
And we, to our superfluous prayer
Permitted still, our lives have won,—
Shaking in fear to be untimely undone,—
By long misdoing undone, unworthy who were;—
Saved by her, but saved too late.
Alma the fair,
Our Alma is dead.